


His Mind

by Raven_Tio



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Tio/pseuds/Raven_Tio
Summary: This is more of an introduction. To what? Well... good question actually. I could see this piece of work becoming the story of a serial killer, but I don't know if I am able to create a web of violence, clues and crime motives.But, I am open for suggestions.So if any reader feels like writing a story to this introduction I would greatly approve. After all, i am a very curious person.





	His Mind

**His Mind**

 

People rant on a daily basis. They complain about the weather, the noise or the smell. Rather than seeing the nice things in a situation they constantly try to ruin it. Lying on a green field of grass, they rather complain about the buzzing of the bees, instead of appreciating the cool breeze or the fresh air.  
He was not that different. He pretended to be.  
Everytime he ranted about something, he claimed to have a good reason. The cause of his work, the product for his customers . There was always a good reason to not be satisfied.  
Alphonse life was a good one thou. He had a flat, he was able to live on his own and apparently enjoy his life. But as all humans do, he lied.

Have you ever read of Sherlock Holmes?  
A genius in his field. The greatest detective, that was ever created, yet never lived. They say, he needed his John Watson as a moral compass, because after all he had seen and lived through, he forgot how to care. A brilliant mind cursed with a blanc heart, unable to feel compassion and to understand true feelings. One should wonder how a man can end up like that.  
Well, he knows. Alphonse can relate.

He might not be brilliant, but he is a clever boy. All his life he went on by outsmarting other people. He never appeared to be the smartest man in the room, even if he was.  
Until he met her.  
She was brilliant and soon it was the both of them against the rest of the world. At some point she claimed to be Sherlock and he let himself convince into the role of Watson. Their life was a great one, filled with adventure, passion and love.  
Until he lost her.

Does it matter, if it was cancer or a car crash? If it was a terrorist attack or a bus that crashed into a tree? He lost her. For good. At that point they weren't lovers anymore. They were family, shared a strong bond and felt a different kind of love even over a great distance. Some time before that he realised, that they might have seen things the wrong way.  
And that is, where Alphonse's story starts.

He always appears as a John Watson. A kind hearted young man, eager to help other, loyal and passionate about his case. Not special. Not outstanding in any field but compassionate. But is there ever a human being, that is empty of envy of hatred or the instinct to kill?  
When Alphonse awoke that particular morning he asked himself that very question. He was wondering, turning his face back into the pillow, if he was truly compassionate or if he just pretended so he could live in peace. He was always walking the path of least resistance. And since he let his love go, life has become somewhat boring. He kept fighting for his goals, but reaching them became more meaningless every day.  
He slid his legs out under the blanket and out of bed anyway. There was no reason to stay in bed and even though the world would keep on turning, when he missed one day of work, the trouble would not be worth the hours under a warm blanket. The routine was classic. Cook some coffee, brush teeth, wash the face, get dressed, drink some coffee while reading the news. As every morning, he was avoiding the mirror, knowing there would be dark lines underneath his eyes. There was no need to check the mirror to groom his hair and straighten his shirt. When he left the flat he looked dashing as ever. His blue greyish eyes appeared to be mysteriously green in the sun and his dark blond hair gave him a rather brave appearance. Yet he had no eyes for all the ladies, turning their heads to check out his nice rear-end.  
Not that he didn't like women. He loved the feeling of warm soft breasts under his fingers. But he was not able to focus on that kind of desires at the moment. Alphonse was lost in his work. It was a daily routine and not really a pleasant job but in a weird way it was satisfying. As usual he was setting up his station, preparing for the main shift while some coworkers where messing around with him. It was an ordinary day, really.  
“Since when do we put the lemons in there?”  
“Since your mother chased you out of the house and towards us.”  
Laughter filled the room and everybody continued working.  
“No seriously, we always put them over there.”  
“No shit, Sherlock.”  
A gamer would talk about a direct hit. Headshot or critical damage. The coworker didn't even realize. But the train of thoughts hit Alphonse as hard as a fist right to the jaw. 

Sherlock Holmes had feelings. A lot of them. But after a lifetime of crimes and horrors, he knew how precious real feeling could be. Rather than wasting them on strangers or lose acquaintances, he kept them to himself.  
That was, of course, until he met John Watson.  
Ever since Sir Arthur Conan Doyle released the clever detective onto the world, his readers and fans have been arguing about whether or not John and Sherlock were lovers. Regarding their interactions one can not deny that they shared in fakt a strong bond. A kind of love that didn’t need to be expressed by physical interaction, but that was clearly in both of their hearts. 

Alphonse was an honest person. That gave him the advantage over careless ears. Nobody would spot the lie in his words, that could be trusted almost all of the time. It was easy for him, to lie his way out of work early that day. His mind was spinning way too fast to focus on his work anyway. And no customer likes to be treated with only half the attention he deserves. He went straight to the one place in the big city that felt like home, even though it was far away from his flat.  
The small bar was never empty. The dimmed light drew blurry shadows over the blank stone walls, while the numerous bottles were illuminated by different colours. It was a warm atmosphere and even though it was a smokers bar, you couldn’t see a single string of smoke in the air.  
When Alphonse reached the door and waited for one of the bartenders to open, he could already see their smiles, the moment they recognised him. He was a regular guest here and the fact, that two of the bartenders where his best friends made this place into his second living room. He was greeted with firm hugs and at the time he managed to sit down at the bar, his drink stood already at his place. That was the first time that day, he had an honest smile on his face.  
“How are you, Al?”  
“Actually… I don’t know, Frank.”  
“Rough day at work?”  
“Rather a strange ‘catching up with my past’-situation.”, he tried to explain. A new string of orders interrupted the conversation and Alphonse was left to himself. The smokey burning of his drink on lips and tongue he finally found the courage to face the thoughts that tried to overwhelm him earlier that day.  
_“No shit, Sherlock.”_  
After pretending to be John Watson for so many years he had started to believe the lie himself. Stacking the facts against each other now, he was not so sure anymore. He was loyal to his friends, but that was a trait characteristic for both, John and Sherlock. And other than that? He was kind, but in a manipulative way. He never did something without knowing it would give him a certain advantage over another person at some point. He was unable to do real ‘socialising’, whatever that was. And even though he was very empathic, he lacked a sense for compassion.  
“Okay, tell me!”, his best friend Frank interrupted his thoughts. The glass still leaned against his lips, he looked up into the brown eyes and smiled weary.  
“I don’t know man… am I heartless?”  
“What?”  
“You know. Cold, distant, somewhat … a pretentious manipulative bastard.”  
For a moment the bar seemed to be silent. It wasn’t. But the fact that Frank did not answer immediately stretched the seconds and even the sound.  
“So I am?”, Alphonse asked, bevor Frank found any words. Instead of answering, the bartender grabbed a bottle and two small chilled glasses and filled them with a stern look on his face.  
“You have a good heart. And we love you for that. You know that, right?”, Frank asked, sliding one glass over to his good friend.  
“But?”  
“You have been distant lately. To the world, thou. Not us.”  
They both lifted their glass, since there was no reply Alphonse could think of, and emptied it in one gulp.  
They talked about a lot of things that night, as they always did, when Alphonse had time on his hands to help closing the bar. Later they sat on the roof, a bottle of rather cheap whisky between them and looked over the city, while the sun was coming up.  
“Do you ever wish to care again?”, Frank asked after a while.  
“I don’t know. Do you?”  
“Sometimes.”  
There was a reason, they didn’t need to talk about that subjekt with more than short sentences. Both had suffered a similar loss and build walls to protect themselves. Only few were allowed to enter the circle behind said walls. And even those few only had rare moments when they were allowed in.  
“I think it’s best for me to be alone. It protects me, it is all I have left.”  
“You have friends.“ The voice of Frank was dark and you could hear that he was smoking on a regular basis. Yet there was something warm about it. At least when he addressed Alphonse the way he did now.  
“And am I not a burden to you, to my friends?”  
“Naaa… you made my day today. The shift was horrible. Have you seen those dumbass idiots earlier? Oh boy... “  
“I hate dumb idiots”  
“See! And that is why you are everything but a burden. An pretentious ass every now and then, but at least you are honest.”  
“And you hate me for that.”  
“Because I hate, me being wrong.”  
They both laughed, even though Alphonse was not sure, if he really felt like laughing. After all, that was the very moment he accepted the truth.  
He had never been a good man, like John Watson.  
And he would never be a great man either.


End file.
